Last week, Nigeria hosted one of the central deities in the global
revolution called social media—in the name of Hon. Triple High Chief Sir
(Dr.) Alhaji Mark Zuckerberg, Grand Commander of the American Republic
(GCAR), founder, chairman, chief executive officer (CEO) of Facebook
International Corporation, the Eze Gburugburu of Iru Akwukwo, Oga
Patapata of Menlo Park, California, and the Magajin Garin of Cyberspace.
Okay, okay, you get the point. Let’s just say, then, that an
entrepreneur known, simply, as Mark Zuckerberg visited Nigeria last
week. And what an education he gave to all of us, from the Nigerian
president down to the unheralded First Citizens of Nigeria’s slummiest
slums.
In a mere few days of his presence in Nigeria, Mr. Zuckerberg gave
Nigerians of all classes an invaluable education on—among other
subjects—the meaning of success, the uses of simplicity, the beauty of
human connection, and the relationship between big dreams and big
impact.
Above all—and unlike most of Nigeria’s politically enriched
millionaires—Mark Zuckerberg made his presence felt—without ostentation,
without aggrandising himself, without (as is the wont of many a
Nigerian person of means) wearing his wealth on his body. Until his
meeting with President Muhammadu Buhari, Vice President Osinbajo and
other government officials, where he dressed formally in a suit and tie,
Mark Zuckerberg sported a T-shirt and a pair of denim pants. Given
Nigerians’ obsession with “wearing wealth,” Zuckerberg, the very face of
Facebook, risked being mistaken for an oyibo factotum to some rich
Nigerian.
This is no screed against affluent Nigerians who choose to spend a
handsome budget on their clothing and fashion accessories. What
impressed me about Zuckerberg’s fashion sense is that its frills-free
simplicity is no act. Or, if it is, it has been so longstanding, so
consistent as to constitute a signature. Zuckerberg has swag all right;
and it’s the swag of modesty. Besides, there’s something to be said for
that Zuckerbergian riff: adorning expensive clothing confers little or
no value.
Mr. Facebook impressed in other ways. He struck me as a man who felt
at home among Nigerians of all ages and stations. I was particularly
attentive to his demeanour as he visited some of Nigeria’s tech
innovators and interacted with youngsters devoted to mastering tech
skills. Far from mounting a rostrum to lecture the youngsters, he seemed
content to observe, eager to learn. And he commended: “The energy here
is amazing and I’m excited to learn as much as I can.” He went jogging
in Lagos, capital of Lagos State, with a posse of Nigeria’s tech
innovators. About the jog on the Ikoyi-Lekki Bridge, he posted, “Quick
run this morning across the Ikoyi Bridge with entrepreneurs in the Lagos
Road Warriors running club. Best way to see a city!” He ate and
appeared to relish Nigerian cuisines. In fact, throughout his visit, he
exuded a cheery disposition.
For a moment—a rich, fertile moment—Zuckerberg’s presence trumpeted the power of ideas, instead of the idea of power, as the path into the future. A large part of Nigeria’s bane is the decades’-long erosion of vision, planning, in the affairs of Nigeria.
I’d suggest that Zuckerberg’s strongest message was not delivered in words, but in gestural vocabulary. In a country that carries deference to age to absurd lengths, the 32-year old co-founder of Facebook modeled in himself a portrait of what’s possible when ambition is fertilised by youthful quest and energy. And in focusing attention on Nigeria’s burgeoning tech talent, he reminded us that Nigeria’s future lies, not in the hands of empty-headed, superannuated knaves who flatter themselves as “chieftains,” but with driven young men and women who are versed in the language of modernity.
For a moment—a rich, fertile moment—Zuckerberg’s presence trumpeted
the power of ideas, instead of the idea of power, as the path into the
future. A large part of Nigeria’s bane is the decades’-long erosion of
vision, planning, in the affairs of Nigeria. Nigerian leaders arrive in
office without anybody challenging them to define a smidgen of a serious
idea, anything resembling a plan. Instead, they deafen us with the
fatuous catechism that “God is in control” or the equally facile claim
that they have “delivered the dividends of democracy.”
Zuckerberg and his wife are worth $54.5 billion. You heard right,
that’s B for billion. Let’s put that personal wealth in some familiar
perspective. If the Facebooker and his wife were a country, they would
have more than twice the size of Nigeria’s 2015 budget, which was $22.6
billion. And they would easily cover every cent in Nigeria’s 2016
deficit-ridden budget, worth $30.6 billion when President Buhari signed
it into law in May. And they would still have $14 billion as change.
For me, the point is not the astonishing scale of the young man’s
assets. As a Nigerian, I find it remarkable that Zuckerberg’s wealth had
its genesis as an idea. Whilst a student at Harvard, he and some of his
counterparts dreamed up an audacious idea: to create a forum that
enables people around the world to connect and converse. That idea
morphed into Facebook, a social media platform now used by more than 1.7
billion people in the world.
I doubt that Zuckerberg’s brain is larger than that of every
thirty-something year old Nigerian. Chances are there are many young
Nigerians just as imaginative as the Facebook founder, many who, given
the right conditions, are just as capable of translating their grand
ideas into astounding projects.
But what does Nigeria do with and to its Zuckerbergs? It stifles
them, bottles up their aspirations, scuttles their dreams, and reduces
them to mendicants and servile praise singers to their country dream
wreckers. If Zuckerberg and his dreamer-doer friends had been students
at a Nigerian university when they first conceived of Facebook, they
would have had to contend with the hostility and cynicism of some of
their professors. “You boys think you can just come up with some stupid
idea? Oya, there’s a quiz tomorrow, let me see how you’ll pass!”
Had Zuckerberg been a Nigerian, nobody would hear his name unless his father was a member of the board of trustees or chieftain of the ruling party, a guzzler of public funds, or some henchman in the armed forces. With all his brilliant ideas, he’d be lucky to get a job as a special assistant on flattery to some nameless local government chairman.
In Nigeria, we have embraced an anti-youth, anti-innovative, anti-achievement culture. These days, when a young Nigerian displays impressive intellectual skills, it is not because her country has high academic standards; it is, in fact, in spite of his country’s best and sinister efforts to keep her steeped in ignorance, wedded to mediocrity. When a Nigerian artiste breaks out as a major musical talent, it is hardly because his country has a vibrant cultural sector that groomed him. Often, he reached into something vital and hardy in himself—and achieved his dream.
Had Zuckerberg been a Nigerian, nobody would hear his name unless his
father was a member of the board of trustees or chieftain of the ruling
party, a guzzler of public funds, or some henchman in the armed forces.
With all his brilliant ideas, he’d be lucky to get a job as a special
assistant on flattery to some nameless local government chairman.
Zuckerberg and his wife, Priscilla Chan, have a daughter. Were the
couple Nigerians, they would have bought the girl one or two Rolls
Royces, a private jet, and a yacht. Instead, the Zuckerbergs wrote a
public letter to their daughter a few years ago to reveal their plan to
give away most of their wealth—exactly 99 percent—to the cause of
“advancing human potential and promoting equality.”
Mr. Buhari told Zuckerberg: “In our culture, we are not used to
seeing successful people appear like you. We are not used to seeing
successful people jogging and sweating on the streets…We are happy you
are well-off and simple enough to always share.”
Unlike the tech entrepreneur, many of Nigeria’s wealthiest amassed
their fortunes by shooting their way to power, rigging elections,
through contract fraud, from questionable acquisition of oil blocks or
other transfers of public assets. I wonder: did these fake “big” men and
women pay attention as Mark Zuckerberg showed us the real meaning of
change?
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